Fear, Itself
by Masked Men
Summary: Is Ra's Al Ghul immortal? Are his methods supernatural? Only Dr. Crane can lead Bruce to the terrorist before he launches a fullscale attack on Gotham again. Rated M for BWXJC slash. R & R. Format fixed in chapter 2.
1. Chapter 1

Here is a litte ditty. Enjoy it. It's the beginning of love, deceit, and endings. We don't own anything. Except Harry. He's all ours. The sexy beast. This is going to be slashy themed, and then, develop soon (be patient, children), into blatent Bruce on Jonathan action. Cheers.  
- Masked Men  
Fear, Itself. Chapter 1. Under His Wing. The Night Gotham was Saved.  
Jonathan Crane knew that he'd gone wrong somewhere down the line when he caught sight of Harry limping down the alleyway after him with a lead pipe. He stumbled clutching the remains of his singed mask, sobered by the shock emitted from Ms. Dawes' tazer. Spirited woman. He'd have to try harder next time. He ventured further into the darkness, when he felt a brick wall break his already fractured shoulder. The fall from the horse had been broken by his arm. He was at the end of the alleyway, at the mercy of an escaped mental patient. Harry limped towards him, stuttering, "Sc-scare-cro-crow...sc-care..", realizing that his tormenter was mortal...and the pipe may ease his tortured existence thus far. Crane sunk to the ground screaming and holding his shoulder, and whimpered, "Harry, breathe with me. HARRY. Remember our breathing excersises...in through the nose", he inhaled, "out through the mouth", he sighed. "Count to ten with me...everything's going to be okay, alright? I promise...I'll give you anything you want. I can do that. Just count with me. One, two, three...". The doctor closed his eyes and kept counting, Harry moving closer with every shaking breath. Jonathan made a mental note on the feckless counting and breathing excersises. They were...scientifically speaking...total bullshit. "Seven...". Harry raised the pipe on 'eight'. He tightened his grip on 'Nine'. A new voice from behind Harry counted with Crane, as Harry slipped to the cold pavement, unconscious. "Ten". Crane put his good arm down from his defensive position, clutching his shattered shoulder, wincing and then smiling gingerly at the towering figure. "Well. Isn't this ironic? So we meet again...Batman."  
"Get up", the Dark Knight said flatly, trying hard not to kick the man smirking before him. "Now", he snarled, yanking him to his feet by his hair, and shirt. "Damn it...", Crane whined, "I'll press charges. I swear...I'll tell them you did this.", he said gesturing at his shoulder. "You've got no rights. You have no idea how deep you're in.", Bruce said gravely, annoyed and hopeful at the tourture Crane might endure through the legal system. THAT would be irony for him. He tugged him along with a tight grip on his neck, agitating the shoulder with every step. Crane saw the pipe laying a few feet ahead and got a terribly clever idea. He screamed a blood curdling yell, and fell to the ground writhing. Bruce let go, startled, and nervous that if Crane wasn't in one piece, Gordon would have him to blame. Crane convulsed, making gagging sounds, and choking, as if in a sort of epileptic fit. Bruce leaned over him, with a discarded cork in hand, as Crane's fingers groped around him. In one quick motion, he grabbed the hero's cape, wrapped his fingers around the pipe next to him, and brought it down on the compassionate vigilante's masked head. The black ceramic shattered around the skull, and Bruce gasped in suprise, and a bit of pain, though he hardly felt it. He damned himself for not demanding a new shipment of rubber masks. Crane caught sight of how the face was put together. He had not soon forgoten the lower half of the face, but now, saw that it belonged to Bruce Wayne. Prince of Gotham. He laughed, almost crying, with the pain that ripped through his body with every heave of his chest, but it would be impossible for Crane to supress his giggling. This was classic. This was priceless. It was the last person he'd expect, this pompous prettyboy billionare. Meanwhile, Bruce couldn't see the humour, as he whirled around clutching his face, and gasping, his breath coming out in white whispers. He paced like a trapped animal, knowing he was now bound to Crane. "Crane!", he let out a gutteral yell, burying the toe of his shoe, into Jonathan's thigh. "Christ! Temper, Bruce, temper...you know, we had groups you could have benefitted from at the ward. Anger management. Or perhaps, we should have treated you for split personality disorder...", he chuckled. "You know, here you are, scaling sky scrapers, clearing roofs in one leap, but you couldn't save your posh little manor from a few little flames. It was you against carbon dioxide, Bruce, and it seemed that your little Halloween costume couldn't save you then." Bruce saw his life flash before him. He'd worked so hard. Everything he stood for, shattered in the fragments of black ceramic in a state of abandon on the street. His symbol had been corupted. Bruce noticed a few raindrops collects in the curved ceramic, and shine on the street. A drop made it's way down his cheek, and Crane was still giggling maniacaly in the background. "Look, Wayne! The heavens are weeping for you! How perfectly metaphoric! It's said that bats hate the rain. So do billionares in Armani, so I'm told. Tell me, are you more worried about daddy's foolish ideals getting soggy, or the condition of you new gadgets and toys. Even though we're talking about the past and present, either way, you should get yourself inside, golden boy, before you ruin that highly styled hair".  
Bruce yelled again, yanking Crane up by his unbuckled straight jacket, and slammed him into a wall. Crane's shoulder had gone numb by this time, and he found himself highly clever, so the guffawing would indicate. Bruce heard a sickening crunch, coupled with Jonathan's laughter that made his stomach turn. He was, no doubt, delirious by this time. It was nearly two in the morning, so Bruce grabbed some seditive from the utility belt by his side and injected the syringe's contents into the squirming and yelling professional before him. Dr. Crane stopped struggling, and his eyelids slid down halfway. Before they shut, he relaxed into Bruce's grip, and said, "This isn't over. This hasn't begun. Thanks for saving me.". With that, Bruce hoisted Crane over his shoulder, and started back towards the manor, letting the rain hit his face. There was enough excitement for one night. He'd turn him in tomorrow.


	2. Freud and House Arrest

Next chapter. Still don't own anything. –Masked Men

Crane woke up in a bed. The light was coming through his windows, unobtrusively peeking through the sheer curtains. He swallowed and moved his head to the side, feeling a large and, well, fluffy pillow framing his face on all sides. He moved to stretch his arms over his head, when he felt his arm bound tightly to his side.

"So", a refined British accent cut the silence.

"Sleeping Beauty has awoke. Brought home by the prince in shinning black armor, himself."

"What's your name?".

"Alfred", came the reply. "I've been Master Bruce's shadow since he was but a boy. I can also be a completely independent force to be reckoned with Mr. Crane, so, please. Do not cause Master Bruce anymore trouble than you have, or I shall have no second thoughts about turning you into the police. It will take some work, but there are ways to convince them that your young, promising mind has been tragically lost in the throes of insanity. They won't believe a word you say."

Crane looked startled.

"However", he continued, "That takes a lot of time and money to draw up proof, so as of late, Master Bruce has placed you under house arrest. Perhaps with your ample time, you can write a thank you letter to Lucius Fox with your good arm. He was the chap that patched your shoulder up. Can I get you something to drink?"

Jonathan's throat felt like sandpaper, the walls of his esophagus sticking together, almost gagging him. "Water", he rasped.

Alfred smiled and bent at the waist a bit. "On it." He hustled out of the room, leaving Dr. Crane to his uncertainty, and musings. Why was he here? What did Bruce want? Clearly, in Gotham, kindness was always married to ulterior motives.

Part II

Crane heard footsteps come up the stairs, some whispering, and the door creak open. There, behind it, was a very powerful, and extremely stern Bruce Wayne. Jonathan couldn't help but sink back into the pillows a bit, being in such a vulnerable state. Secretly, Bruce was delighted at this gesture, doubling as a sign that the good doctor was ready to cooperate.

"What Alfred told you was half true…", Bruce sat cross-legged in a chair. "I'm keeping you under house arrest. Don't think for a second that it's for fear of blackmail, or even out of the kindness of my own heart. I spend my nights scraping scum like you off the streets. You have crucial information."

Bruce took a breath, enjoying reading Crane's puzzlement like an open book with notes in the margins.

"Ra's al Ghul.", Bruce let each syllable linger and resound. Jonathan flinched. The name. That name.

"He's dead. Dead. Very dead…the train. You know that better than anyone, Bruce". Bruce got up, starting to stroll back and forth nonchalantly.

"Dr. Crane. What are we to do with you? Now, you know about…him. Unnatural man, supernatural methods…he's in someone else's body."

Jonathan laughed out loud.

"Possession? You've got to be kidding me. You've fell off of one too many sky scrapers. He was sneaky, alright…but, Jesus. Don't be telling me ghost stories, that's what got your parents killed. Ghosts of dreams. Spooks. Haunts. They're dead ideas. If they ever existed in the first place."

Bruce rounded on Crane.

"My parents did a hell of a lot for this city, and I'm not going to let an asshole like you undermine their efforts."

Bruce's eyes were wild, and Crane somehow, got a pleasure out of seeing the boy so flushed, so worked up.

Come to think of it, that's why he got into the business in the first place.

It was a wonderful place for the introverted boy to study men, examine men, and eventually, play God; inevitably and irreversibly mind-fucking these men to their dying day. It was all about power and control…the kind he was holding over Bruce Wayne at the moment.

Bruce kept himself in check though, seeing the blatant heat, and lust radiating from Jonathan's eyes…that smirk that caused that… feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The same kind he got when Rachel smirked in triumph when they were kids.

The kind that made him want to rip them from limb to limb, the kind that made his face burn…the kind that made his heart melt all over his insides and want to patch the gorgeously constructed forms back together, using searing kisses for seams.

"I know you can feel him. I feel him too. Every scar, every mended bone, every shadow. Ra's. If he comes back, he'll kill you too. You failed, doctor. You and I. We need to find him."

Crane knew everything that Bruce said was true. He could find Ra's in everything.

Most of all, Bruce. Bruce Wayne, Ra's al Ghul's greatest student, greatest betrayer, greatest teacher, and greatest love.


	3. A Picture is Worth 1000 Words

Still don't own diddly squat. Read authors' note at the end for an announcement on upcoming chapters. Love you guys. Wait. Jiro's ours. Bwahahaha.

-Masked Men

Jonathan dreamt for the first night he had in a while. It wasn't a bad dream. It wasn't cryptic, or hazy, like his late-night hallucinations always proved to be. Not a vision of the future, but a picture of the past. It was he and Ra's.

They were standing on a frozen tundra, and Jonathan couldn't help but rub his arms frantically trying to keep warm.

Ra's turned around and contended, "Rub your chest, Mr. Crane. Your arms will take care of themselves."

Ra's kept looking intently at him, and Jonathan could not take his hands away from his arms, fearful of the freeze that might onset if he did. When he cast his eyes downward, and continued rubbing his burning arms, Ra's looked away, almost…disappointed?

"You are the second American who's come here. The first since we rebuilt it. The first American and last man to come to me before the rebuild was a peculiar type. I found him, really. Tell me, Mr. Crane."

Ra's lunged forward at an apprehensive Jonathan, and his fist shot out at Jonathan's unprotected face. Jonathan threw himself back off his feet, even though the fist very obviously stopped a few centimeters short of his nose.

" Do you fear me, doctor?"

Crane stayed down, shivering and shielding his face.

" Mr. Al Ghul, you've got quite a reputation. You are regarded as a g-great and terrib-ble f-force to b-be reckoned with. I respect you for this. I want w-what you ha-have. P-please don't hurt me. I wa-want to do business, you kn-know. Restore Gotham."

Ra's took an indifferent look.

"Mr. Crane, you are no different from any of the men that come to me. Do not take offense to this. Only good men make it past the front door. But you fear me, Mr. Crane. For good reason. You are a thinker, not a fighter. A man with any sensibilities would fear me. It will be a pleasure to do business with you."

Ra's extended his arm and helped Jonathan back to his feet in an effortless, and almost weightless movement.

They trekked back up to the warmth of the temple in silence. Even when they got inside, Crane couldn't stop shivering for some reason.

"Mr. Crane, I've got some business to attend to, so I'll show you to the front door and have Jiro give you a ride to the airport."

Ra's snapped his fingers, then walked away. A man dropped from the celing with an utterly bored look on his face not even pausing to look at Jonathan before grabbing his sleave and pulling him towards the front door.

"Wait…how do I get in touch with Ra's…."

"He will contact you." Jiro snapped.

They came into a huge room where two huge iron doors with etchings of bats loomed over the simple wooden-clad Asian temple. Jonathan took one last glance at the temple behind him, everything starting to haze a bit, the darkness past the hallway getting darker.

There, above the entry stood a shrine, with two crossed sticks of incense burning below a textured and dark iron piece of a bat nailed to the wall.

Jiro gave Jonathan a rough tug, and he was caught unaware as the stinging cold filled his body outside the temple.

Part II

Jonathan woke with a start, freezing. His comforter had fallen off during the night. Jonathan sighed, pulling it back up around himself. The warmth started in his face. Ra's had told him that he was no different. No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

No different.

He had always been different. He had always been special. Isn't that what his mom and dad used to tell him? They wouldn't lie to their special son. That's what his teachers told him. He was special. Best grades. College professors. The best school. Liked among his peers. Productive. He was sure as fuck special. That's what he told his patients. He was special. That's what his patients told him when they sheathed themselves completely inside him late at night, during room checks.

He would simply unplug the cameras; the guard was a narcoleptic, anyhow. That's precisely why he was Crane's first choice for the job.

No flying, insane, spoiled freak of nature would take his special title from him. He could run fast. He was special at running. He grabbed a candlestick and headed to Bruce's room.

Bruce had on his reading glasses, and was flipping through a packet of expenses lost and gained at Wayne enterprises, when Jonathan burst into the dimly lighted expanse of the master bedroom.

Crane shut the door behind him, and lifted the candlestick.

Before Crane could take another step, Bruce had delivered a roundhouse kick to Crane's hands that sent the metal flying clear across the room.

Crane shook out his hands and jumped on Bruce, knocking him back against the bed and to the floor.

Bruce, struggled for a moment against the hail of weak punches, and then easily rolled on top of Crane, who was straining and yelling beneath him.

Bruce figured that it was a good thing that Alfred was at his niece's tonight.

Crane found it evident that he could not surpass Bruce in physical strength, but mentally, he could tear him to pieces.

For a moment, Bruce, had Crane's hands pinned to the floor, and that's when Jonathan struck.

He smiled that coy smirk. The one that made Bruce's stomach tense, and his breath hitch a bit.

With his graceful hands, Crane wrapped his fingers around Bruce's, and pressed his lips to the other man's.

Crane teased the roof of Bruce's hot mouth with his tongue, bringing it under afterwards, in a swirling motion, drawing Bruce's pale pink tongue into his own mouth, gently sucking on it. He quietly moved his head back to rest against the floor, still smiling that smile, and kissed a flushed, and panting Bruce's fingers.

Bruce looked at him through lust-heavy, half-mast eyelids, and already looked freshly fucked. He was painfully hard against Crane's thigh.

Pity. Tonight's games had just begun.

Alright! Hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter is going to be rated MA for some squicky physical and mind fucking. So, review, like the good god-fearing citizens you are and read on at your own pleasure, or risk. Some people get off on the whole adrenaline thing.

-Masked Men


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